


White threads and empty hands

by 35391291



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 00:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8599108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: It is not death or pain he fears as much as this otherness, this unknown path of blue and black writing that he is already walking along, wading into silence. As if he was only a footnote, and never the whole story.
Sometimes, rebirth is practical and straightforward.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story runs parallel with [Tar hopscotch, side steps](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8415103).

The sky overflows, the mirrors shatter, the stars hurt. That's how it is. Some things stay the same, and some, surprisingly, don't. Like being in a proper home for once. It is different, but not unwelcome. There is something about knowing where one will lay down when night falls. It feels right and safe. Even if he rarely sleeps properly anymore, the bed, the candle and the room are a compass for his darkness. Having these things, in the same place, all the time, it truly feels like an anchor of sorts. Like everything belongs somewhere, and everyone belongs to someone else.

Except, perhaps, himself. Vinculus had never stayed in one place for long, never enough to set down roots. He has roamed all over, looking for a solution, a defining moment, a translated meaning for himself. And, while he has always longed to be on the move, walking out to meet the world, there is a weight that comes with it. It means that he can keep walking forever, and no one will tell him to stop. The road is always white threads and empty hands. He cannot walk back, or retrace his steps. There is no system here, other than allowing himself to be forgotten, to disappear forever. No one will know, no one will care. Even now. And there is no cure for that.

How to face a reality that will not move or change? Possibly, by trying to outrun it. But it soon becomes impossible. The world moves past him, among thousands of ravens, and it is as if he was back by the hawthorn tree. Back to the very start, which is nothing more than the end. He has loosely followed a plot for years, but the path has now forked, and it can't be undone. He has misplaced the magic words traced upon him. His hands dig all over, searching for the kindness of a memory, but there might not be such a thing. It might be too late, but there is no time for tears. This is not his land, he knows. It belongs to someone else. But still, he keeps trying to remember those words he forgot.

Vinculus hasn't said a thing, but Childermass notices, as he does most things. In his defence, he was not trying to hide, not anymore. It is all out in the open now, not even vulnerable, but simply honest and almost challenging. As if he wanted to show his bravery somehow. He isn't afraid of the dreams, or of the ghost of the noose around his neck, or of the endless spirals of ink that burn his flesh every day. He isn't afraid, except he very much is. It is not death or pain he fears as much as this otherness, this unknown path of blue and black writing that he is already walking along, wading into silence. As if he was only a footnote, and never the whole story.

Now, when he wakes, his hair is matted and nightmarish, tangled with magic. His wrists turn like birds, like threaded meaning, and his pain sleeps inside a whisper. His head feels like a bush of thorns. His first thought is to stop it with fire. As if it could burn it all down, to start over. But Childermass knows that sometimes rebirth is practical and straightforward. His own conversations with magic have taught him a thing or two about fire, but mostly about sky. So instead of fire, there is water, washing out the darkness and grit of the path. And when he combs and sets Vinculus's hair and beard, his manner is almost businesslike, but not without kindness. It is gentle, in a realistic way. His hands seem to say _I am still here. You are still here as well._ There are no unnecesary words. No pity, no masks, only a simple understanding.

It is a strange thing, to be touched in a way that doesn't make him feel as if he owes someone a part of himself. Childermass isn't a comforting person by default, but he is there. He knows where Vinculus has been, and what he has endured. And that is good enough for now. It makes Vinculus feel like something kept safely in one's pocket, because it will be important and valuable later. Perhaps not extraordinary, but just right, exactly as it is. Not a curiosity, but a gift. And so, there is no fire. But perhaps, just a tiny spark.

Nothing will ever be as it was. But now, at least, when he closes his eyes, the world stops moving. It waits, away from the fog and the darkness, reluctantly, almost with a sigh. One day, perhaps the night won't feel like a road without end. The stars will stop throwing their sharp and cruel knives at him, and will become safe and soft, like fireflies. The words he carries will stop dancing in coils of despair, and will settle into the shapes they were always meant to have. At last, they will feel right. It now seems possible to make sparks jump, simply by living. To find a spell that won't backfire, and someone who will read past all the words, and find the real meaning. One moment, one memory would be enough to reclaim the world. This certainty comes surprisingly easy, and as quickly as that whispered spell. Perhaps the key is to accept this strangeness, this magic meaning. To embrace it on his tongue, like that elusive cure. To find it deep within himself, where it was hiding all along.


End file.
